


Pampered Into Submission

by Cyberra, gatekat



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, Knights of Light, M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:42:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyberra/pseuds/Cyberra, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gatekat/pseuds/gatekat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Knights of Light.<br/>Two vorns after bringing Drift to New Crystal City, Wing goes about trying to convert Drift in a new, and slightly unconventional way.<br/>Written for <a href="http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/11776.html?thread=12271616#t12271616">http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/11776.html?thread=12271616#t12271616</a><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Pampered Into Submission

Wing flopped down onto his berth, letting out a gusty sigh through his vents. Resting his chin on his crossed wrists and letting his wings flop open onto the berth surface, he gazed over at his reluctant roommate.

Since bringing Drift to the hidden city of the Circle of Light and having him repaired, Wing had been doing everything he could think of to get the Decepticon to settle into his new home. He had tried fighting, speaking to the Decepticon in a language he understood very well. He had tried seduction, but Drift didn't seem to have any grasp of an emotional connection with physical pleasure. The white jet had tried teaching Drift, trying to educate him. All that had gotten him was a sneer and statements about how useless education was. Wing had taken Drift around the city, showing him all it had to offer, but Drift only seemed to grow angrier and more resentful. 

The white jet was frustrated to deactivation. He wasn't sure what to do next. Drift was probably the stubbornest mech he had ever dealt with. He was even worse than Dai Atlas when the big blue Knight was really digging in his heel-plates, and that was saying something.

Huffing another sigh, Wing let his optics dim slightly as he watched Drift, trying to figure out what he was going to do next.

The half-white mech was using a cloth to clean himself, though he wasn't dirty. After more than two vorns, Wing knew Drift's need to be active very well. It was part of the mech's mental health to always be _doing_ something. It wasn't a bad trait, but it could be very depressing to watch given the mech refused to read, didn't like to talk, didn't have any weapons and couldn't leave these quarters unescorted.

Wing was sure Drift was well aware of the attention on him, but it would be several more kliks of silence before he snarled about it.

One red-trimmed leg idly kicked at the air as Wing continued to watch Drift, his golden gaze sliding over the white armor, watching the motion of the polishing cloth. That was another thing he'd noticed... Drift liked to be clean. Maybe there was some potential there?

"What?" Drift barked at him with an aggressive growl of his powerful grounder engine. Despite the display, Wing had long ago learned that Drift didn't really mean anything by it. That was just the only way he seemed to know how to communicate.

"Just thinking." Wing gave the surly mech a bright smile, twitching his audial flares. He knew his cheerfulness got on the half-white mech's nerves most of the time, but it was how he was.

Pale blue optics, something Drift still wasn't pleased about, lifted to glare at the jet. "About me."

Wing tilted his head to the side, fanning out his audial flares. One wing twitched, folding to his back. "Why not? You're an interesting, exasperating mech."

The snarl Drift graced him with silent before he went back to rubbing the cloth on his arm.

The white jet smiled slightly, going back to his watching. A germ of an idea was beginning to take shape in the back of his processor. He let it develop on its own as he continued to watch the intriguing, exasperating, growly mech he'd brought to the city.

* * *

Wing hummed cheerfully to himself as he all but bounced back to his quarters. Other Knights he passed in the corridors gave him sideways looks, wondering about his cheerful mood and the lack of his surly, growling shadow. The white jet ignored the looks as he took the lift up to his floor, trotting to his quarters and unlocking the door.

Drift, to no great surprise, gave him a glare and huff from his preferred corner with a view of both door and balcony before going back to pretending to ignore him.

The white jet greeted his roommate with an entirely too chipper trill that was replied to with Drift's patented snarl. It was a look and sound that Wing had learned to categorize as 'as socially agreeable as Drift knew how to be' since it meant Drift acknowledged him and wasn't attacking. Both major advances in Wing's opinion. Bouncing across the room he began pulling packages from his subspace. Golden optics flicked over Drift, noting the lack of the sparring paint that had turned Drift more blue than white earlier that orn. He couldn't be surprised. Drift inevitably had one thing on his processors after a post-sparring overload: remove the evidence of Wing's victory from his frame. It was really rather cute in a way. Cleaning up was such a civilized act.

Pale blue optics flicked up, watching Wing's movements and taking note of each item, though Drift said nothing of it. When Wing didn't move to pull another item from subspace, Drift rose to his pedes with the silent, deadly grace that spoke as much to a warrior heritage as Wing's did and stalked forward.

A black hand closed on Wing's arm and tugged him towards the berth, causing Wing to let out a chirp of surprise. Against his plating, Drift's field was its typical cacophony of conflicting emotions, but dominant was the edgy buzz of _need_ that Wing belatedly realized hadn't been dealt with after their sparring lessons. Gold optics cycled briefly, then Wing realized what was going on. Flashing a bright grin at Drift, he allowed himself to be tugged over to the berth. One wingtip sneaked out to brush ever so lightly against Drift's side.

It was ignored, as expected, and Drift threw Wing face down on the berth and pounced on him, pinning his wrists down and getting one knee between the jet's thighs with a hard growl of his engine. His spike extended, black with a stripe of white and a gold tip, hard and demanding between them.

A soft trilling laugh answered the action. There was a soft snap as Wing's interface panel opened, his valve bared and lubricant already showing around the edges of the platelets. White wings flared out across the berth surface, tips wiggling slightly as Wing parted his thighs a bit more.

It was all the permission Drift needed and a good deal more. His field flared hotly, thick with the frustrations of the orn as it and anger coiled and mutated into an acidic kind of desire that Wing was all too familiar with from Drift. A single thrust of powerful black hips sank Drift's spike deep into Wing's valve, but he didn't stay there long enough to enjoy it. He almost immediately pulled back and drove in again.

Wing's back arched, a sound that was half moan and half gasp escaping his vocalizer. His calipers cycled down, clutching at Drift's spike, rippling along its length. The jet's hands, still pinned to the berth, opened and closed around the plush coverings as he shifted under the half-white mech, angling his hips into each driving thrust. He knew that it didn't make any difference to Drift, at least not that the mech would ever admit to. Those first couple times had made Wing's spark ache for the mech who had never known an interface more willing than that of a pleasurebot, and rarely that much. Taking was all he had ever known, and Wing was sure that Drift hadn't been the one to initiate that pattern. You didn't learn that taking was the only way without being the victim first.

Above him, Drift grunted, his chest pressed against Wing's back as he thrust, chasing the quickly building spike overload with no sense but to make it happen _fast_.

Slender white wings wiggled against Drift's plating, scraping softly against the metal. Wing was torn between the building pleasure from his valve and the aching sympathy for Drift that had never gone away. Once again he vowed to himself that he _would_ show Drift that there was more to interfacing, to life, than just taking.

Shifting again, the white jet pressed his own chestplate into the soft covers of his berth, arching his back and shifting his hips ever so slightly, a mew escaping as the move caused Drift's spike to rub over another set of sensor nodes. In the vorn and a half that they'd been interfacing, Wing had gotten very good at how to chase his own overload like this, not that it had been difficult to learn. It was a familiar thing, repeated almost every orn to sooth Drift's bruised ego and long-battered self-esteem after their matches. That Wing _could_ overload, and often did, from his valve and this treatment had also been, much to Wing's dismayed surprise, the greatest shock he had delivered to Drift yet.

Drift simply couldn't comprehend it, didn't even know how to respond to it. So he ignored Wing's pleasure, or at least he pretended to. The reality was that it gnawed on the back of his processors like a starving cyber-wolf. Because no matter what he'd always been told, Drift was neither dim nor slow. He chewed on mysteries until he solved them or they went away.

Wing wasn't going away.

All that was absent from his processors now, however. All there was was the building pleasure from his spike and the bliss of dominating the mech that had humiliated him for joors in sparring.

With a groan and shuddering thrust that ground their interface panels together, Drift felt the first cracking wash of the overload take him and willingly surrendered to the moment of white hot nothingness.

White plating flared as much as possible to let the building heat escape. Wing's frame tensed, a keen bursting from his vocalizer as Drift's overload triggered his own. His valve calipers tightened around Drift's spike, directing the bursts of transfluid towards the dense cluster of nodes and holding him briefly still as excess energy leaped from grounder to flier to grounder and back. Heat washed through their circuits, riding the excess charge.

It was only a moment of stillness, of complete detachment from reality, before the charge faded and both their frames slumped down, momentarily disoriented and drained. Drift lay, warm and compliant, against Wing's back. As Wing caught up with his frame once more, he noticed the tiny signal that Drift trusted him more than the grounder would ever admit to; Drift's hands were relaxed, no longer pinning Wing.

Wing purred, kneading the berth covers with his hands as his frame loosened. Craning his neck, he rubbed his cheek against Drift's nearer arm, content to stay where he was until Drift decided to move. During the two vorns Drift had been in the city Wing had learned very well how difficult it was to get the half-white grounder to lower his defenses even a crack, and once those defenses slammed back into place it could take joors to get him settled down again.

Drift's fingers flexed, tightening and loosening around Wing's wrists as the grounder began to move. His defenses weren't up yet; his field was rich with sated contentment and a curiosity that was rarely allowed to display. Drift's optics were on the shift of black to white to black to white of their hands and forearms.

"Why'd you have me rebuilt like this?" Drift asked quietly, his tone somewhere between genuine curiosity and annoyance.

The jet blinked at him, slowly tucking his wings back along his spinal plating. "You were rebuilt in our style because that is the only one we really use here... We did not recognize your original design, and we were in a bit of a rush. You were very badly damaged." He trailed his fingers lightly down Drift's arm, a feather-light brush of fingertips.

"There's plenty of black plating around here, and gold," Drift pointed out. "My optics weren't crushed, but replaced in blue. You don't use blue." He shifted, lifting his heavy frame off Wing's as he pulled out of the jet and flopped to his side to stare at him. Oddly enough, he wasn't really scowling. "My legs and interface gear were just repaired. My hands half replaced. He put a lot of work into making me _look_ like you, but only from the waist up."

"Redline never does repairs by half measures." Wing shifted onto his side, curling slightly around a convenient pillow. "The damage to your upper frame was worst. I can't say what Redline was thinking, but I guess he figured a rebuild was the better option." Slender wings and nacelle pinions fluttered in a shrug.

Now Drift scowled. It wasn't what he wanted to hear. It _really_ wasn't want he wanted to hear.

The moment of curiosity was over. Drift's field muted, but it was a gradual thing over almost ten full nanokliks rather than the abrupt change he often displayed.

Wing had to shrug again, not knowing what else to say. He watched the other mech, his golden gaze moving over Drift's armored frame, noting the fresh paint scuffs on his chest as well as the fluids on Drift's pelvis. Bits of training paint peeked around Drift's sides, where the Decepticon had been unable to reach it to get it off.

Shifting and slowly sitting up, Wing nudged his companion. "C'mon. I'll help you get the rest of that training paint off." He smiled warmly at the other mech. Drift huffed in reply, his scowl very firmly there, but he moved with the warrior's grace Wing had noticed when they first met and followed the jet into the washrack room.

The white jet detoured over to the table, rummaging quickly through the packages he'd brought back. Pulling a few items from one package, he trotted into the washracks, replacing some of the older supplies with the new ones. Wing reached out to lightly catch Drift's arm, tugging him under the warm cleanser. He felt the resistance to the touch and being directed, but he also knew intimately well what was reflex and what was intent.

This was reflex. It left Drift standing under the spray, his plating quivering slightly from the warmth and the promise of being clean. Pale blue optics dimmed as his frame relaxed, the combination of knowing he couldn't take Wing on and the gradually, warily accepted truth that Wing was unlikely to hurt him both making it possible. Somewhere along the way, Wing had been linked to Gasket and the creator-leader trust given there. Just so long as Drift didn't think about it.

Picking up a brush and some cleanser, Wing purred softly as he eased around behind Drift, making sure the half-white mech could see the movement. He'd learned the hard way that popping up behind Drift was generally a bad idea. Continuing to purr, the sound changing to a hum, he applied the brush to Drift's back plating, moving the bristles in slow, smooth circles over the armor. 

It was an easy thing for Wing, something he enjoyed doing because it was taking care of someone he cared about. For Drift, it was still a confounding thing, much like their interfacing. He challenged every perception he held, every social rule and norm he knew, and as good as it felt, it was also vexing. He didn't know how to relate to Wing, a mech that acted submissive and happy to be under him, washing him, tending to him, and yet spend joors every orn throwing him around and painting his armor in swipes of blue or gold or red.

Yet it _did_ feel good, and like with Megatron, Starscream, Soundwave and Turmoil, there was little point to fighting what Wing wanted to do. Little by little Drift's armor opened up to the spray and the gentle touch. It exposed his inner cabling and wires to the solvent and Wing's touch, but it also allowed his field to be read a little easier.

Wing continued his soft, soothing crooning, keeping one optic and his field on Drift while the rest of his attention was on what he was doing. The brush and gentle black hands moved over Drift's plating, removing all of the training paint but going farther than that, getting into every nook and cranny where debris could build up. His touch was light, intended to soothe and relax. The sound of the falling cleanser blended with his crooning, the warm scent of the armor cleanser Wing was using swirling up to tease Drift's scent receptors.

Wing was rewarded in his efforts by a gradual, and uneven, relaxing of the mech he was tending to. He could feel it every time Drift realized he was relaxing, because he'd tense up again. It never lasted long though, and Wing took it as a good sign. Was he _finally_ making progress? Was Drift finally starting to see reason, to recognize the benefits of New Crystal City? It made his spark flutter just to think about finally being able to present Drift to the council and have them rule him a free mech. Or at least free enough to move about the city without being someone's shadow. He knew that was incredibly grating on the grounder. Drift _hated_ being beholden or bound to another when it wasn't his choice.

At the same time, Wing had gotten enough of a history from the moments where Drift deigned to speak of his past to know that once his loyalty was won, Drift was loyal for life. Only twice had that loyalty been given, and both of those mecha still had a strong hold on him.

White audial flares and nacelle pinions fanned out, reflecting Wing's hopeful mood. He continued to work on Drift, slowly moving his attentions outward from Drift's back to his sides and shoulders and thighs, giving every inch of plating and exposed cabling the same careful, gentle attention. Even the edges of the plates, which rarely saw much attention at all, received the same treatment.

In a quiet show of acceptance, not once did Drift growl at him or attempt to speed the process along. His field displayed a touch of his need to move, and do so soon, but it had yet to be vocalized.

It was a huge advancement for Wing, and the jet knew it. Quiet tolerance from Drift was as good as anything got. Drift snarled at and challenged even though he was loyal to. It was just his nature. He wasn't gentle. He didn't do soft. Silent acceptance was a small miracle.

Hope that he was finally, _finally_ getting through to Drift was making Wing feel slightly giddy. He kept that giddiness contained as best he could, not wanting it to seep into his field where Drift would be able to feel it and tense up on him again. The white jet slowly circled Drift, making his way around Drift's sides to his chest and up to his helm, then slowly down the grounder's heavily-armored frame. His touch lightened as he washed away the fluids on Drift's pelvic armor, keeping his touch gentle and his frame language non-threatening.

The sight of Wing kneeling there, in front of him, was more than enough to rev Drift's engines. His hands came forward to slide along Wing's helm as his spike extended and pressurized. He didn't _say_ anything, but he hid nothing of his desires either. It was as close to asking permission, asking for something, as Drift could manage.

Golden optics sparkled up at him as the white jet leaned forward, his glossa flicking out to stroke along Drift's spike from base to tip. Wing treated the spike like a rare treat offered to him, lapping daintily along its length, alternating teasing brushes of his lips with quick cyberkitten licks along the white stripe, until he reached the tip. The tip of his glossa flicked over the golden cone, then Wing slowly took the length into his mouth, his hands coming up to rest on Drift's hips.

The deep, resonant moan was Wing's reward, along with the feel of the spike beginning to pick up a charge from the friction and pressure. Drift's hands closed around Wing's helm, the fingers along the side and the thumb around the base of each finial. For the moment he didn't move, didn't force Wing to move, and simply enjoyed the sensation and the addictive quality of a field against his that radiated pleasure.

Wing purred around the spike, his mouth vibrating against the slightly rough overlapping plates as he worked the spike with lips, glossa and intake. He could taste traces of his own lubricants still along its length. Black fingers slid carefully into Drift's hip joints, kneading and stroking the components, his gaze flicking up to meet Drift's pale blue optics. He knew that look, and the feel of Drift's field against his backed it up.

Drift found watching this intensely erotic.

Erotic enough that he wasn't pushing for the overload like he normally would. He was savoring this, recording the slide of his spike in and out of those finely crafted white lip plates. Relishing the _look_ of control that he wasn't actually demanding at the moment.

The low growl of Drift's engine added to the moaning rumble from his vocalizer as his hips moved into Wing's motions. Not yet demanding, but definitely participating.

The playful jet upped the intensity of his purr, sending vibrations through Drift's spike and setting off sensors left and right. He slowly increased his pace, savoring the taste and Drift's responses to his action. His nacelles thrummed, revving gently, matching the rev of Drift's engine.

Dark fingers tightened around Wing's helm as Drift's optics flickered from the charge dancing across his systems. They both felt it when he gave up any effort to hold back. First the flare of his field warned, then his grip just before he thrust his hips forward, driving his spike down Wing's intake until those white lip plates pressed against the spike housing.

Wing fluttered slender wings and pinions, his own armor fluffing slightly. He could see Drift's armor steaming lightly as the heat building underneath evaporated the solvents and cleansers still falling onto him. The jet easily adjusted to the movements, his intake working the tip of Drift's spike while lips and glossa worked along its length, glossa flicking along the base of the spike. Drift was by far the most aggressive lover Wing had known, but he was hardly the first to demand control.

A low, deep moan and shudder heralded a quickening pace. Drift's hands tightened, holding Wing's helm still as his hips thrust his spike in and pulled it out of that welcoming tight warmth and dancing stimulation. His optics flickered again as the charge rose, fast and welcomed, from his spike and interface lines to the rest of his frame.

"Oh yeah," he wasn't even aware he was speaking as the charge flared and danced across his frame until he roared and slammed his hips forward to pump his transfluids as deep into that wonderful slick warmth as he could.

The jet's intake worked, swallowing down the transfluid, making sure not to let any escape. His own field, flushed with pleasure, pulsed gently against Drift's. Slowly, he withdrew his hands from the grounder's hip joints, tilting his helm to look up, drinking in the sight of Drift standing over him, steaming lightly, charge flickering over and under flared plating. The mech was gorgeous in pleasure, relaxed and feeling good. It was even better than Drift in recharge, and Wing so rarely got to _look_.

Drift's hands moved from Wing's helm to his shoulders, needing the support and taking it without thinking. In another subtle mark of trust he simply stood there as the charge abated, long after he was capable of bringing his spike in and standing on his own. That was an image Wing burned into his memory banks, wanting a permanent record of how magnificent Drift looked with his shields down for a change. His upper engine nacelles flattened down, providing more surface for Drift to brace against. He gave Drift's spike one last, long lick, catching the last stray drops of transfluid before letting go, tilting his helm to smile warmly up at Drift.

The peace didn't last long, and when he shifted back and looked at Wing again, it was with uncertainty as to what to do next. Wing simply smiled up at him and fished around on the floor with one hand, locating the brush and stroking the bristles along Drift's leg.

With an unusual hum Drift relaxed and let him do as he pleased, his need to _do_ satisfied for the moment.

Wing trilled in response, resuming his thorough cleaning of Drift's frame. He traced the lines and angles of the dark armor covering Drift's legs, the strange design from far outside the hidden city. Most found it unnerving, but to Wing it was fascinating. It was scarred in a way that no Knight was; testament to how much Drift had survived and how little energon and maintenance he'd had much of his long existence. Even Dai Atlas had a perfect finish. Not for lack of battles, but because he had plenty of energon and good care during his fighting vorns, and even better care since.

It didn't take long for Wing to finish, the brush running over Drift's ankle and footplate one more time. The jet tilted his helm this way and that, inspecting his work, then chirped to Drift and gave himself a quick wash. He couldn't reach the paint scuffs along his back, where Drift's chest had pressed against his spinal plating, but there wasn't much he could do about that. He'd have to ask another Knight to see to them. It was a favor he gave to any who needed it and received it in turn. Until then, white on white wasn't that visible. It wasn't any kind of secret that Drift was his lover.

When he reached to put the new brush away his fingers were caught under Drift's palm as the grounder took the brush.

"Hold still," Drift rumbled at him, projecting irritation at doing this favor.

The jet nodded, turning to give Drift better access to his back plating. That was another thing that Drift had to get used to. Decepticons did not present their backs to each other so casually. Decepticons didn't _trust_ like this.

Pushing it out of his processors, Drift went to work on the hardly-noticeable paint transfers. A Decepticon wouldn't have cared they were there. Everyone knew if you were taken, and by who. Most officers and powerful warriors would hurt a mech that removed the scuffs too soon.

But here, everyone was clean. Always clean. Well-fueled and maintained, their paint bright and glossy, optics bright, movement smooth and well-oiled.

It disgusted Drift, but it called to him like nothing else. Ever since he ended up on the streets he dreamed of being clean and staying that way. It was what he wanted most, right after energon. Safety came in third. A home was a distant fourth. In his long life he'd had everything but safety. The gutters had none of it. The crime lords offered him good energon, maintenance, a comfortable place to call his own, the ability to be clean ... but it was never _safe_. The Decepticons had offered much the same. Though the energon, maintenance and space was less steady, but they'd also offered _hope_.

Now, this frustrating creature in front of him was offering him everything, and asking only that he ... behave ... in exchange. To be civilized. To listen to Wing, it was such a simple request, but it clarified the gulf between them like no other thing. Drift didn't even understand that he _wasn't_ being civilized. He hadn't attacked anyone here. He hadn't taken his pleasure from those weaker. He hadn't done anything but behave.

It wasn't enough. It wasn't even close to enough.

So here he was trying again, pushing himself to mimic Wing's actions as much as he could stand. It wouldn't be enough, but maybe it would be enough that Wing realized he was making a Pit of an effort at it.

Golden optics dimmed slightly, a purr escaping the jet as he leaned into the brush. Wing was a very tactile creature; he loved this. White plating quivered, his wings loosening from their neat tuck. Part of his attention was on how enjoyable the touch was, while the rest of his processor was on the progress he had made with Drift. Drift was an enigma, but Wing had never backed down from a challenge and he truly felt like he was making progress. Yes, in two vorns Drift was still surly, prickly, uncouth and generally difficult to deal with, but there were moments like this where he seemed to almost belong.

It made him quiver with excitement for his plans for the evening ... and however long it took to get through to the stubborn grounder that he could _trust_ Wing.

The scrubbing was harder than another Knight's, but the work was done quickly and efficiently. Something else picked up from a culture that didn't trust. When someone turned their back so you could clean it, you did so quickly and with enough telegraphing of your movements that they didn't think you were going to stick a knife in their back. It wasn't a comfortable place for either party.

"There, clean." Drift announced curtly as he stepped back and moved to put the brush away.

White wings twitched. Wing turned to smile at the Decepticon. "Thank you." He put the rest of the supplies away, turning off the stream of cleanser before reaching for the drying cloths.

Once both of them were dry, he led the way back into the main room, opening another of the packages he'd brought back. Humming cheerfully, he brought out some new polishing cloths and a selection of fine armor waxes and polishes.

Drift looked at him dubiously. "Aren't you shiny enough already?"

Wing chuckled softly, flicking out one wing to indicate Drift's armor. "This is for your plating, not mine." He looked over the selection, picking out one of the polishes.

" _I_ don't need to be any shinier," Drift bristled with half a step back and narrowed optics.

The jet blinked at him, ruffling his plating. "There's nothing wrong with looking good. It will feel good, too. Please?" He looked at Drift hopefully.

Wary optics regarded him with more resistance than most possessed. "What's the big event?"

"Does there have to be one? Can't it be just because?" Wing tilted his helm to the side as he realized that there was a very serious line in Drift's processors between 'looking like a successful mecha' and 'example of what was wrong with society.' "Because I want to do this for you? Because I want you to feel good? For no other reason than that?" He did his best to sooth it over, trying to put it in context of himself rather than Drift.

Drift glared at him, but two vorns of experience told Wing that it was more instinctive posturing than actual resistance to letting Wing do what he wanted.

"I better not smell like that frou-frou dance-bot you like to watch," Drift tried to look menacing. It failed utterly due to his own lifelong conditioning that the strongest mech could do what they pleased, and the unquestionable fact that Wing was the stronger of them.

"You won't," Wing assured him cheerfully. The polish he'd chosen was the kind a fairly well-off merchant or artisan would sport; he'd suspected Drift would not react well to the kind of polishes and waxes the really wealthy mecha would use. It was still better than the general polish most Knights used, since their finish was always collecting new dents and dings and sword damage and focusing on looks was discouraged.

Drift gave him one more glaring look before he settled on the bench at the table with a huff but less tension than he typically sported. Wing smiled encouragingly, chirring softly. Picking up one of the new cloths and the selected polish, he began working it into the armor of Drift's left spaulder. The clean, pristine white plating soon glowed in the false sunlight coming through the open balcony and reflected the pale blue of Drift's optics.

"How common are blue optics here?" Drift asked, his voice low, a bit uneasy, but his gaze steady as Wing worked.

"Among Knights gold optics are the most common, but there are still quite a few of us who have blue optics. One of my creators has blue optics. In the city, they are fairly common," the white Knight replied, looking up briefly from the white plating he was working on.

"And red?" Drift prodded the subject that disturbed him far more than any other part of his rebuild. "I know your leader has red optics. Are they restricted?"

Wing blinked. "The only optic color with any restrictions is white, since white optics are traditionally reserved for priests. Other than that, no, red optics are not restricted."

"Why give me blue optics?" Drift asked, even though he knew Wing didn't have an answer, or why, after two vorns, it was becoming so important to him. "Do you know what blue optics mean now?"

The white mech paused in his polishing. "I'm not sure why Redline gave you blue optics... Maybe he was out of red and was waiting on more to be fabricated. I don't know." Slender wings twitched. "We fled Cybertron when the war was just breaking out; I don't know what blue optics mean now. Here they are nothing special."

"You know what an Autobot and Decepticon are though," Drift prodded. It sounded like a rhetorical question given how often Drift had been taunted and degraded with being called Decepticon, but it wasn't. Not now.

"More the Decepticons than Autobots," Wing replied. His wings pulled tighter to his back. "We were attacked several times before leaving Cybertron."

Drift grunted, his field caressing Wing without realizing he was doing so. "Blue optics are for Autobots. Red are Decepticon."

The white jet digested that. "Is that why blue optics make you so uneasy?" The pieces were falling into place in his processor.

"They're an insult to everything I fought for," he actually growled, the hatred flaring hot and bright in him for a moment. "Long before the war, Enforcers always had blue optics too. _Nothing_ good has come of blue. Now they've been forced on me, like everything else 'leaders' have forced on everyone else." Suddenly Drift snapped his jaw shut and forcefully muted his vocalizer. He knew better than to rant at Wing. It only got him philosophy lessons.

Wing flinched ever so slightly. "Blue optics are nothing special here. Anything they might have meant was left behind when we left Cybertron. There is no stigma attached to them, or to red optics, or orange, or yellow, or purple."

"Except as everyone so enjoys pointing out, _I'm a Decepticon_ ," Drift hissed, trying to keep his anger in check. "You might as well have painted an Autobot insignia on my chest instead of this one," he tapped the purple insignia he had fought so hard for the ideals of. The ideals he'd been willing to go AWOL for. Ideals he was willing to do anything for. "If you really wanted me here as a citizen, why paint the insignia back on at all. You knew what it meant. You knew the faction it went with." Again Drift cut himself off and struggled to kill the threads. It didn't matter. He wasn't going anywhere. Not until he could defeat Wing, and that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. Once more he allowed the thought of breaking the blue optics to run. All things considered, he'd be repaired again. Maybe they'd be something different.

"It was not my idea to paint it back on," Wing responded a bit stiffly. "That was up to the repair techs. My hope is that one orn you will be able to leave it behind. To willingly cast it off and settle down here. This city has everything you ever wanted."

That stilled Drift for a lingering moment as he fought his own anger and preference for action over words.

Slowly blue optics lifted to look at Wing with something akin to pain before he shifted to stare out the balcony, his gaze blank, but Drift didn't say a word. He couldn't. He knew it was going to happen long before he could defeat Wing. Because except for one tiny fact, Wing was telling the truth.

It was that tiny fact that made Drift fight so hard to deny the inevitable.

It wasn't his to claim.

The Knight vented a long sigh. His fingertips trailed lightly over the back of Drift's neck before he resumed polishing. He was hoping to restore some of the good mood Drift had been in before, or at least get him to relax again, but by this point that was likely impossible. Still, he focused on the polishing and took it as a good sign that Drift hadn't tried to assault him or get away. It was an improvement and any improvement was good.

Three joors and most of a can of polish later, and Drift was nearly in recharge on the berth, willingly allowing Wing to work on his back.

The jet had resumed his humming without really noticing as he worked on Drift's armor, giving every plate his complete attention, running the polishing cloth over the edges and into the joins. Light and dark armor shone softly under the overhead lights and the light that seeped in through the balcony doors. After all his work, even the older plating looked quite fine. It was good to get Drift to relax, and it only occurred to Wing after he'd finished just how far Drift had come in two vorns.

The very concept of Drift assuming this position, face down on the berth, his plating loose and nearly in recharge with Wing sitting there, touching him, would have been ludicrous not that long ago.

Wing purred, putting down the rag and stretching briefly. He settled back on his heels, regarding his handiwork. Drift truly looked amazing when he was relaxed, and when his armor gleamed like this, he was gorgeous. Another purr escaped the playful white jet. Pushing the polishing supplies aside, he reached out to run his fingers lightly over Drift's armor, tracing the lines and angles, taking the opportunity to explore. It wasn't often Drift was this relaxed.

A low rumble, a warning sound, came from Drift, but like most of his rumbles and growls it wasn't an active rejection. Just a statement that Drift was well aware of the jet's presence and was prepared to move if Wing did something objectionable. Wing had long ago learned what growls were closer to his trills and chirps and thus were not meant to be taken seriously.

Wing trilled, letting the half-white mech know he meant no harm. Leaning down, he gently nuzzled the back of Drift's helm, his hands continuing their explorations. He was always fascinated by Drift's frame. Tactile as Drift was, it was rare that he got a chance to just explore. Drift's touch was never so casual. He'd never been taught how to enjoy so many of the simplest joys and after so long the resistance to learning was solid.

This time, after two good overloads and almost four joors of pampering, he seemed willing enough to allow Wing to touch for exploration. It was more progress.

Chirring softly, Wing continued his explorations, one hand gliding down Drift's arm to stroke over his hand, tracing the join between black and white, before gliding back up and working down Drift's frame. White wings fluttered gently behind the jet as he indulged his curiosity and need to touch. His field licked out to brush against Drift's, expressing just how much he was enjoying this.

It was met by a half-in-recharge muted murmur from Drift's, accepting, welcoming even now that the grounder wasn't _thinking_ enough to change his field's contents.

Wing nuzzled Drift again, purring against polished armor. He briefly rested his chin on Drift's shoulder, his field bright with warmth. For a moment he stayed in that position before his optics brightened, and he began fishing in his subspace. After bit of rooting around, Wing pulled out a length of white cord, usually used for penance and meditation bindings. Purring softly, Wing shifted, sliding his hand along Drift's arm to his wrist.

He couldn't believe how easily Drift was allowing this, how close to unconscious the mech willingly was. Nimble fingers slid the cord around one wrist and quickly tied it. The soft length caressed wrist cables, causing Drift's hand to twitch and a half-curious, half-unhappy sound to escape him.

Wing chirred, leaning down and craning his neck slightly to brush his lips against Drift's cheek. His hand slid along Drift's other arm, gently tugging it closer and looping the cord around the other wrist. With a soft huff that was more air escaping than disgruntlement, Drift allowed Wing to shift his arms until his wrists were together, and bound.

The jet purred at the lack of resistance, tying the last knots. Once the cords were firmly tied, Wing ran his hands down Drift's frame, stroking over all the sensitive seams he'd discovered during the vorn and a half he and the half-white grounder had been interfacing. Nimble fingers sneaked into armor seams, teasing at the wires beneath. The armor plates opened just a bit more, allowing him access. Drift's field fluttered between recharge and arousal, the mixed desires holding him out of either state as his frame decided which to chase.

Golden optics sparkling, Wing leaned down to apply lips and glossa to the slightly flared plating, nibbling at the edges. Warm air from his vents swirled over Drift's armor, brushing over the sensitive wiring. The white Knight pressed a light kiss to the grounder's cheek armor, then dipped his helm to nuzzle at his neck cables.

The contact all amounted to enough to swing Drift towards interfacing and he gradually booted his optics and processor. At barely a third full power, every cable in his frame went taunt and armor slammed tight, close to his frame to protect himself. "Wing!" the designation was half startled, half angry, thick with undertones of distress as Drift tried to roll over and free himself.

Wing yipped in surprise, yanking his fingers back to avoid getting them caught under Drift's plating as he steadied and gently pinned the grounder under him despite Drift's efforts to twist free. "Easy, Drift. Relax."

"Wing," the warning growl was genuine, the struggles real, though backed more by reflexive fear than _Wing_. "Let. Me. Go."

"I won't hurt you," the jet crooned, his field calm and warm against Drift's ragged one.

"Let. Me. Go." Drift snarled with a hard buck that did nothing to dislodge the jet. His field spoke of the coming surrender, however. He'd been well-trained by a lifetime not to resist for long once he realized he was caught and pinned. Pain was the only reward for extended disobedience. It was far more effective to wait for an opening. Eventually everyone grew bored of him once he stopped fighting back.

"It's okay," Wing murmured, leaning down to nuzzle. "I won't hurt you." His voice dropped to a sultry purr.

Drive shuddered. Fear that had turned to anger was once more sliding towards fear, only to be covered by a stoic acceptance and stony hatred the Decepticons had taught him very well after he was no longer at Megatron's side. Right along side it was the well-taught arousal and anticipation that Wing's desire created once Drift accepted that he wasn't going to be punished for his aggression in the berth.

"I am going to thoroughly blow your circuits," Wing promised in that same sultry purr, leaning down to lick at Drift's throat cables. His hands glided over slicked-down armor, stroking along the edges.

Another shudder, a flare of arousal, and there was a barely audible click of the combat locks disengaging. Drift's armor didn't flare out, but it, and he, were no longer anticipating imminent pain and damage.

Wing pressed his frame against Drift's, his engines purring, vibrating against the grounder's heavier frame. Slowly, the jet began working his way down, paying attention to every seam and circuit he could reach, lips and glossa following in the wake of his hands. He knew Drift's frame well, knew the temperament and many of the quirks that drove it. He knew the incredibly subtle shifts that differentiated a growl of anger from one of arousal, frustration or pain.

He knew how to play this frame, and he wondered, absently, if Drift realized just how easy he was to read and manipulate. Almost as soon as the thought crossed his processors, he was sure Drift did. Despite all pretences, Drift was smart and Wing saw that easily too. Not smart the way most Knights, most citizens, would see it. He wasn't well educated, nor had any desire for it. But he was perceptive, too fast on the uptake by half most of the time. He'd simply focused all that processor power on a few basic skills and had allowed the other pathways to atrophy.

By the time he reached Drift's hips, the armor had begun to loosen and Drift's engine had shifted to the rumble of arousal. The faint scent Wing knew well told him that Drift's spike was already pressurizing between the grounder and the soft blanket under him.

Still purring, Wing wiggled his way between dark-plated thighs, lowering his helm to press nipping kisses to the armor covering Drift's equipment. He nuzzled the plating covering Drift's valve, making a curious chirping sound. A moment later his glossa stroked over the metal.

A core-deep shudder passed up Drift's frame, and it wasn't the pleasant kind. The second swirl of Wing's glossa drew a soft whine from Drift's engine, but it was his field that was screaming what Drift refused to vocalize.

Pain.

So much pain. It was the only association Drift had with a touch _there_.

"It's me, Drift," Wing whispered, just loud enough to be heard. "I won't hurt you. There's nothing to fear. I'd _never_ hurt you that way."

"Not afraid," Drift snapped at him, trying to cover the rising panic as Wing licked over the plating again, a long, slow swipe of his glossa.

Another shudder and whine of his engine, but Drift complied. His valve cover snapped open, offering Wing his first look at a brand new valve, one he recognized as Redline's work. It fit flawlessly into the older metal of the pelvic girdle, but it still had the gleam of completely untouched metal and silicone.

The white mech chirred, nuzzling the inside of a dark thigh before lowering his helm again. His glossa probed delicately at the platelets surrounding the valve entrance, flirting with the overlapping edges. Curling one arm around Drift's leg and kneading the dark metal, fingers sliding into the join of leg to hip, the flier gave all his attention to the untouched metal revealed to him.

Just his field was enough to make Drift try and pull away, but there was little strength behind the effort. Resigned, Drift submitted, but that changed nothing of what he was expecting. It changed nothing of his desperate desire not to have Wing associated with this pain. Wing always felt good. Even when they fought, it was a good pain. Infuriating but good. Honest and teaching. Something Drift had long forgotten existed.

Another small sound of objection escaped Drift. This was the first time Wing had ever done anything to him. Always before he'd taken the jet. Always. Even if they both knew it was only because Wing allowed it, it was a welcome thing, to control that one tiny aspect of an existence he had no control over.

It hurt somewhere Drift couldn't give name to.

The contact though, that felt good. The light, gentle slide of a glossa along platelets that hadn't existed in a long time. It figured they'd repair that too. A small, choked moan escaped Drift's vocalizer, a sound half pleasure and half sob. It was wrong, so wrong, for this to feel good. But Wing ... it made sense for anything Wing did to be good.

Drift wanted it to be good desperately enough his spark hurt. His fingers curled, tightening into fists as he focused on shutting down as much of his active processes as he could. Let his frame run on autopilot. Let it feel good without the confusing jumble of memories and sensations from the past. The past was dead and gone. It needed to remain there. 

Whatever Wing wanted of him, he needed to become. It was a matter of survival.

Jet engines revved and purred against Drift's legs as the white mech continued, lapping at every millimeter of the platelets. Slowly, gently, he let the tip of his glossa push through them into the valve itself, closing his lips on the valve rim. Catching one of the sensor nodes right on the edge, he sucked lightly on it, stroking the tip of his glossa over it and was rewarded by a moan of honest pleasure.

Drift's field was full of confusion, but the pain-hate-resentment had faded to a very dim background note. It felt _good_. Bright and hot and crackling with pleasure, it felt much like attention to his spike, but completely different. The pleasure was there, it was familiar, but he had no mental map of the sensors being triggered.

Sidling closer, Wing let his glossa delve in deeper, seeking out the sensor nodes studding the valve lining. Drift's valve was dry, but that was no surprise. The jet was aware that Drift associated nothing good with touches to his valve. Hopefully this would help to change that. He pressed his lips against the platelets and valve rim, his purr vibrating into the sensitive metal, glossa busy with the lining nodes.

Above him Drift shivered, this time from pleasure, and the valve's secondary systems began to power up. Wing could taste the faint hint of lubrication his stimulation brought, then calipers tried to close on his glossa. Drift's field was strangely neutral, the pleasure the brightest note in it. It was more than Wing expected, but it also concerned him. Drift didn't submit this quickly, and never this quietly. Yet he was.

Wing's nacelle pinions flattened down against his nacelles, part of his processor working on this mystery. Later, he would take the time to mull it over, but right now he was otherwise occupied. Tilting his helm, he pressed forward, glossa reaching in as deep as it could go, flicking at the nodes at the very limits of its reach. The taste of lubricant brought out a deeper purr and a delighted shiver of the jet's frame.

That vibration brought a matching shiver from Drift. His legs loosened, spreading slightly as he whimpered from the building pleasure. Wing hummed deeper when the lubricant was thick enough to feel, to coat his glossa and alter the way it slid along the flexible valve lining.

The Knight added a hum to his purr, mouth and glossa sending the vibration directly into the bi-colored grounder's valve and the sensitive nodes studding the lining. One hand continued to stroke Drift's hip joint while the other ran along a dark thigh and into the knee joint. Slender wings fluttered out of their neat tuck, the tips brushing dark armor.

The shudders along Drift's frame became more pronounced with the whir of fans and hot run of air from vents. A low, resonant moan rumbled from his chassis, half from his engine and half his vocalizer. Wing's field was brushed with the thick pleasure from Drift's. Wing's field, bright and warm, wrapped around Drift's in reply and he hummed encouragement as he continued, savoring the flavor of the valve lubricant. The very tip of his glossa flicked across one of the deepest nodes he could reach, while simultaneously his fingertips skimmed across the sensitive wire in Drift's knee joint.

An engine-deep moan and shudder responded as Drift pushed his hips up into the stimulation, an act that also rubbed the soft cloth of the berth along his spike to draw another shudder of pleasure from him. It was only a few more licks before Drift's frame stiffened, joints locking automatically and cables tightening against the heavy change that raced through him. A deep roar vibrated the walls of the small apartment as Drift surrendered fully to the overload.

Golden optics glowed brightly as the excess charged leaped off Drift's frame onto Wing's, sending delicious shivers up and down his sensor net. He gave the valve one last, long lick before slowly withdrawing. With affectionate touches along the trembling frame, he crawled up to wrap Drift in his arms when the shuddering stopped and the mech went lax, holding his project, his lover, as he gradually came back to reality. A last, long quiver traveled down Drift's spinal strut, ending in the distinctive slide of the valve cover sliding shut. Drift's spike was still fully pressurized, jutting out from his pelvis in black, white and gold glory despite the pool of transfluid it had ejected.

Wing rubbed his cheek against Drift's helm, gently turning the bi-colored grounder over onto his back. Curling down, the jet licked along Drift's spike, catching all of the drops of transfluid still streaking its length. Pressing his lips against it, he turned up the intensity of his purr.

Blue optics flared almost white as he moaned and arched into the contact without thought. Bound hands found their way to Wing's helm, and in this familiar touch Wing felt the real difference of Drift's autopilot. Unlike the pointedly, unnaturally gentle care Drift had taken in the shower or the hard taking of the first few times when Drift wasn't entirely sure he wasn't about to have his spike bitten off, this touch was firm, holding Wing still as Drift's hips drove up into the very willing mouth again and again. He gave no time or space for technique, but no violence was in his field either. He simply _was_ in that moment, and wasn't fighting the state.

Wing pressed his helm into Drift's hands, purring hard enough for his plating to vibrate. He braced himself with one hand, using the other to stroke over Drift's armor, fingers flirting along the join of black and white. His golden optics dimmed as he concentrated on what he was doing, pressing his frame against his lover's.

Drift moaned deeply, his frame pressing into the touch wherever it wandered as he thrust. It felt so good, the physical and the mental, he didn't want it to end. His frame had other ideas however, and all too soon the moans became grunts and his thrusts were harder, more pointed, with energy crackling along his plating and through his entire system.

The jet sucked harder on the spike thrusting in and out of his mouth, fingers sliding into the hip joint. He ignored the energy that stung at his lips as it leaped off Drift's plating, purring loudly. With a roar of pleasure, Drift's hips drove up hard as his hands pressed down and his entire frame arched, pumping a burst of crackling, hot transfluid down Wing's intake with rotating, grinding mini-thrust of his overload.

With a sound that was almost a whine of relief, Drift's frame sagged, spent. A chirr escaped the jet as he swallowed the transfluid, his glossa darting out to catch any stray drops. Letting the spike slide out, he leaned into the brief caress, lifting his helm to look up into Drift's pale blue optics and a face that was lax in the afterglow of two good overloads. Drift's grip on Wing's helm loosened until his fingers fell away, caressing the side of his helm in the process.

Drift didn't say anything, but he lifted his hands, shaking faintly, into Wing's line of sight in a silent request.

"Not yet," Wing purred. He crawled back up Drift's frame to settle against his side, one leg draped over Drift's, and fished in his subspace again. What he pulled out was an exquisitely-crafted energon confection, glittering with crystal dust. He offered it to the bi-colored mech, flaring his audial fins.

"I will never understand why you spend credits on those things," Drift grumbled. His tone was insulting, but his field flickered with something very different; desire for the treat he'd never even dreamed existed until Wing had all but pushed one into his mouth during his first decaorn here. Deep down, there was even a sense of thanks that Wing thought him worthy to spend the credits on, and the very real confusion at it.

Still, Drift lifted his still-bound hands to take the treat.

"Because I have the biggest sweet tooth in the Citadel?" Wing's smile was bright. "They're worth spending the credits on." He placed the treat in Drift's hand, watching the grounder. It was fascinating and a little sad to feel Drift's war with himself between desire for the treat he knew he wanted, that he knew tasted so good, and hard-learned hatred for anything that spoke of privilege and, in Wing's mind, of peace. Which meant that every treat he got Drift to eat was a little movement towards accepting civilization. As erotic as the mental image of Drift taking the treat from his fingers with his lip plates was, this was even more a show of accepting what the city offered.

It was an awkward movement for Drift, getting his bound hands to his mouth, but he slid the confection between his lip plates. His entire frame shivered involuntarily at the sensations and flavors he still had no names for. The crystals tingled and popped, releasing electrons of a configuration native to this world. The hard shell cracked at his internal heat, sending a flood of thick, rich jet high-grade across his glossa.

Drift's engine hiccupped along with his vents when he realized that there was another hard layer under that intense burst of energon.

Wing trilled very softly, watching with bright optics. He was drinking in Drift's reactions to the treat. Those particular confections were specially-made and not the easiest to find, but they were worth the hunting and every credit spent on them to acquire. Dark fingers trailed feather-light over Drift's chest as the white jet watched. 

The second layer cracked and a new flavor of high grade seeped into Drift's mouth, coating his glossa and drawing out a sensual moan every bit as intense as sucking his spike got. It triggered the same neural pathways too, making his mostly withdrawn spike twitch and pressurize in response.

Slender wings and nacelle pinions flared out as the white-plated Knight noted this reaction. Golden optics sparkled as he leaned down to nuzzle Drift's cheek, shifting on the berth next to him. Another length of cord made an appearance, Wing making a quick loop with it that went unnoticed by Drift. He was still too wrapped up in the exquisite cascade of sensations and flavors of the treat Wing had given him to care what Wing was doing.

Pale blue optics dimmed, Drift's attention turning further inward as the energon and minerals seeped into his systems, leaving him very nicely buzzing and relaxed in the same instant. It should have been a weird sensation, but Drift was enjoying it too much to care about logic.

The jet chirred softly, looping the cord over his own wrists. It took some interesting coordination with fingers and denta to get the knot tied, then Wing shifted over Drift until he was straddling the grounder's midsection, valve cover open and drops of lubricant slowly falling onto Drift's armor.

That got the grounder's attention, and pale blue optics brightened considerably as he took in the look on his lover/keeper/tormentor. "What is this?" Drift scowled slightly, utterly at a loss and more than a little uneasy with both their hands restrained. Sure, he knew they could snap them quickly, but that delay could be fatal.

A golden optic winked. "Just a bit of indulgence." The jet shifted, slowly lowering himself onto Drift's pressurized spike. His wings fluttered and wiggled as the hard length rubbed against the walls of his valve. 

Drift moaned and rolled his hips upwards, his optics locked on Wing's wrists. His processor was nearly locked up at the contradictory messages the situation, position and visual feed were giving. To be bound was to be a prisoner, at best. To take it in the valve was to be subordinate. To be on top was to be in control. To be Wing ... was to be as confounding as anything Drift or Deadlock had ever encountered.

Wing hadn't been joking about not being an Autobot. No Autobot was this weird. They all knew the same rules Deadlock did. There were lines they didn't cross, lines that Wing probably couldn't even begin to comprehend.

Wing was a walking contradiction and fully aware of it. He was a highly skilled swordsmech, yet he could be the cuddliest creature on the planet, could go from deadly serious to puddle of goo in two nanokliks. Most other Knights had given up trying to figure him out and accepted him for the enigma he was.

A low, distressed sound escaped Drift, but it was mingled with the harmonics of heavy arousal.

The white flier let out a throaty moan, optics dimming and helm tilting back as his pelvic plating finally pressed against Drift's, the bi-colored mech's spike fully sheathed in Wing's valve. Shivers ran up and down Wing's spinal strut as he held still for a long klik, then began moving. Drift moved with him, the physical pleasure a familiarity he latched onto.

He refused to think about just how much the sight of his captor and keeper bound and taking his spike turned him on. He didn't dare think about it, but it still made his charge rise fast and hot. Fans that had only just stilled whirled back to life, venting hot air.

This hurt his processors, this contradiction to all he believed in as the truth. It went against his most fundamental social standards. To accept this was to break, and Drift stood at the edge of that precipice and looked at the unknown. Acceptance meant he could never go home ... but why did he want to? Cybertron held no good memories, nothing to fight for or return to. The Decepticons had lost their way, becoming worse than the government they had destroyed. He'd known, the moment he chose existence over deactivation at Turmoil's cannon, that he was never going to be a Decepticon again. He'd kept the insignia out of stubborn pride and a longing to recapture those first few vorns, when Megatron was on the right path.

Now Drift was here, facing the choice to leave everything he knew behind for a chance at a better future once more.

He'd never allowed fear to rule him before, and he wasn't going to stop now. He _wanted_ Wing.

With a deep, growling rumble Drift reached bound hands forward to stroke Wing's spike cover. The unexpected touch brought a soft gasping moan from the jet's vocalizer and a slight buck of his hips, causing Drift's spike to rub against the valve lining in entirely new ways. Wing's spike cover slid back, allowing the red-trimmed white length to pressurize into Drift's hands. Sun-gold optics blinked, bright but unfocused. Wing continued to move, shifting his hips forward into Drift's hands as well as maintaining his steady pace over the grounder's spike.

It made the dichotomy of the situation far worse for Drift as he willingly cupped the spike he'd never seen before between his palms and stroked it, yet it also kicked in survival protocols written so deep into their kind that to be without them was to cease to exist as a Cybertronian. Two vorns of experience were analyzed, everything that didn't fit into Drift's new existence was shunted into long-term memory as the past. It wasn't a fast process. It would take orns to complete even the first wash of changes.

Some things, though, were changed fast. Interface priorities were rewritten at the top concern. Some, like accepting pleasing Wing's spike with his hands and accepting that spiking Wing wasn't an act of domination, came fairly smoothly. Others would take much longer, but Drift knew they'd come. He'd reworked himself half a dozen times before. The only thing that never changed was his fire, his willingness to fight back. That was in his spark, not his software.

Wing made the most interesting and enjoyable sounds at the dual stimulation, his optics glowing brightly but unseeing. His hips moved in a steady rhythm, white plating fluffing out to vent heat, wings twitching and wiggling behind him. His field, bright and hot with pleasure, pulsed against Drift's. Part of him could vaguely sense what was going on in Drift's processors as it leaked into his field, but the bulk of his attention was firmly elsewhere.

It made the process easier on Drift, though the charge racing through his systems didn't. He moaned and thrust up harder, his tac-net prioritizing the overload as the most productive act, followed by editing his code when he could concentrate.

Wing was panting heavily, his fans whirring loudly as they struggled to keep his systems cool. Charge could be seen arcing and dancing under his flared plating as he drew closer and closer to overload. It was a goal the mech under him wanted too. The thrusting and rubbing and matching Wing's rhythm, though Drift's hands lost their focus quickly, simply holding still to give the spike a passage to thrust through.

A low, rumbling moan rose to a roar as Drift drove his hips up, charge crackling across his frame and into Wing at every contact point. His spike pumped out a burst of richly charged fluid with each uncontrolled, rolling thrust that lifted Wing up.

The jet's keen of overload was almost a shriek. His optics flared bright white, fixed blindly on the ceiling as his valve tightened around Drift's spike, his own spike spurting silvery transfluid over Drift's chassis and hands. Excess charge leaped off onto Drift and the berth, leaping from Wing's wingtips toward the closest wall. Wing's frame locked up, holding his arched position for a long klik before finally, slowly loosening, the white Knight almost melting into a sated puddle with wings on top of his lover.

"You're weird," Drift mumbled as he relaxed, physically sated and focused on getting the adaptation edits over with. It was a disconcerting process to be conscious for. As soon as that thought crossed his processors, Drift realized that Wing had shorted out, dropping completely off line. Drift's spike still inside him, the jet sank down to sprawl with a complete absence of tension across Drift's chest.

With a low hum, Drift snapped the bindings on his wrists, then broke the cord binding Wing's wrists with shaking fingers, and sank into recharge to allow his socialization edits to take hold as smoothly as possible.

* * *

Joors later, it was Wing who stirred first. The jet made a soft humming sound as his optics powered up, glowing a warm gold. Turning his helm, he shifted to look at Drift, a grin touching his lips as he noted that Drift's spike was still in his valve, and Drift was still recharging.

Moving slowly, so as not to wake the bi-colored grounder just yet, Wing lifted himself off Drift's spike, settling next to the other mech and just looking at him for a long moment. Dried transfluid still stained Drift's chest and abdomen, and had smeared onto Wing's armor when the jet had collapsed on top of him. Their mixed fluids coated Drift's pelvic girdle and his upper legs.

Golden optics took in Drift's position on the berth, then brightened, and Wing grinned to himself. Carefully he moved and got restraints strong enough to hold Drift unless the grounder was really trying from his toy chest. Cautiously he stroked his hands along Drift's arms, drawing them upward when there was no objection, not even a stirring. It didn't take much to secure both wrists to the berth's helmboard, and still Drift didn't even shift.

Wing had to bite his glossa to keep from making any sounds as he secured Drift to the berth. He couldn't wipe the grin off his face, however. Once Drift's arms were bound in place, he sat back on his heels to admire the grounder, then flowed down along the berth to settle between Drift's legs. After one last, long, admiring look, he leaned down to press his lips against dark metal.

It was warm, and responsive to the touch. Drift's field, still in a largely neutral state from his recharge, reached out to Wing's in a soft welcome so unlike Drift's waking state. Yet even in full recharge, Wing could feel the kernel of the violence that was so core to Drift. Like Dai Atlas, Drift's talent for combat was a true gift, something that came from his spark as a pure thing, untarnished by society and painful lessons.

The jet purred against the metal, his field reaching out to mingle with Drift's. Sidling closer, Wing nipped delicately along the edges of the plating, the tip of his glossa tracing the seams. Bright gold optics flicked up toward Drift's face, watching to see how he would react, and how long it would take him to notice enough to come on line. Already it was an incredible record. Usually the moment Wing so much as twitched Drift started to power up and was fully booted by the time Wing was. This was just delightful. Drift must be more trusting of him to allow himself to stay under with the jet moving about.

Another lick and Drift let out a soft sound, probably a moan, but more of a whisper of his vents relaxing. Deep inside he began to power up, the boot cycle a slow one. Wing's wings fluttered slightly before folding loosely to his backstrut again. Still purring, the white flier ran his glossa over Drift's pelvic plating in one long, slow lick, lightly resting a hand on one dark thigh.

He could feel it in the movement of Drift's frame when he tried to bring his hands down. The sharp spike of near-panic converted to anger-aggression on instinct when it registered that he was restrained. Another spike of that mix when the second much harder tug informed Drift that these bindings were much stronger than before.

Then Drift went completely lax with submission and surrender Wing had felt from him before, but with a very different echo across their fields. Before Drift surrendered with a mix of hatred and disgust, the way one did to an enemy. This surrender was much closer to what Wing knew from his fellow Knights. The surrender of one ally to another.

Wing chirped softly, audial fins flaring out. That response was much, much preferable to what the old response had been. Chirring, the Knight continued his teasing licks and nibbles along the edges of Drift's valve cover, pressing his lips against it and letting the vibration of his purr stimulate the nodes hidden underneath. It snapped open quickly enough that it couldn't have been a conscious move, yet Drift's moan wasn't one of humiliation and his legs relaxed, spreading a bit as his hips shifted to offer that valve a little better.

The change in Drift's behavior was intriguing enough that Wing started a thread in the back of his processor to ponder it, but kept the bulk of his attention on what he was doing. He purred against the platelets, glossa sneaking across them to tease and trace the edges. Every single sensitive spot was hunted down and given attention as Drift began to moan and squirm for real and lubricant oozed from the opening, fresh and warm from Drift's internals. It wasn't with the resistance of the first time, only a few joors ago either. This was something ... not quite as accepted as pleasuring his spike, but something had suppressed much of the negative connotations Drift had with his valve.

Wing's purr deepened as he lapped up the leaking lubricant, savoring the taste. The tip of his glossa slowly, teasingly pushed through the platelets, searching out the closest sensor node and rolling slowly over it. Above him Drift _keened_ and stiffened at the rush of pleasure. His valve calipers cycled on, trying to close around the intruder that was just too small to capture.

"Wingggg!" Drift howled with the next roll of glossa over node.

"Yeeeeessssssssss?" Wing drawled in response, poking teasingly lightly at another node. He was drinking in Drift's reactions, his field pulsing and twining around the grounder's.

"Stop _teasing_ ," he snarled back, shaking already, his field a riot of need and arousal, but not yet enough of a charge to be close to overload.

"But it's so much _fun_!" The Knight's optics sparkled with mischief as he feathered his glossa over another node, leaning forward to very lightly catch the rim of Drift's valve in his dentas. The frame above him shuddered in something between bliss and fear.

Yes, there was the fear that always came to Drift when his valve was touched. The knowledge that only pain was coming, the kind of pain that no warrior wanted to live with. The whimper was out before he could stop it, a pathetic sound he didn't have the active protocols to stop anymore. The edits he'd made were only so strong, and that touch, the beginning of a bite, threatened to unravel them.

Wing let go, closing his lips on the valve rim and sucking lightly at it. Finding another sensor node, he licked at it, teasing it gently with the tip of his glossa as the frame around him relaxed, _wanting_ to accept this. His hands skimmed lightly over dark thighs as he upped the intensity of his purr, lips and glossa sending the vibrations directly into the sensor nodes.

Drift's vents hiccupped as he recovered from the shock of the bite and what it tried to drag out of him, but his vocalizer moaned. He rolled his hips into the licking, into the hands on his thighs, and shivered at the pleasure.

The white mech's glossa eased deeper into Drift's valve, moving slowly and relentlessly teasing every node it encountered as the charge rose, crackling between the lining and his glossa. Wing was deliberately driving Drift's charge higher, but keeping back that one little bit that would tip him over the edge. It was fun to tease, but that wasn't the real purpose. He wanted Drift to _ask_ for his spike.

Shivering moans rumbled from Drift as his entire frame moved with the pleasure, the need and want. He'd never had an overload take so long to build up and it brought a whine from his engine. "Wing...."

"Yes, Drift?" Wing wiggled the tip of his glossa against a deeper node, tilting his helm so he could look up and meet Drift's pale optics when the mech stopped writhing.

"Damnit, Wing," he gasped, then moaned at the loss of stimulation. "You trying to get me to break these things?" He rattled the chained cuffs pointedly.

"I have other thoughts in mind." Wing's grin hinted at mischief before he ducked back down, lapping at the platelets before easing his glossa past them back into Drift's valve.

"What?" Drift demanded between deep moans that arched his entire frame into the touch.

"You'll see," the jet cooed, delivering another long, slow lick to as many sensor nodes as he could reach.

Drift whined again, all but thrashing against his bonds as he was trapped just on the edge of bliss by his captor. Wing was very good at this, driving another mech to the very edge of overload but not tipping them over that edge. Gleaming optics watched Drift's reactions as he continued to lap at the grounder's valve, teasing the sensor nodes as he went.

"Wing!" Drift's voice took on a desperate edge as he pulled at the chains, straining the connection point as his valve tried to close around nothing.

"Want something?" Sparkling optics smiled at him along the length of Drift's frame.

"Yes you crazy Autobot-thinking reject from the misplaced processor ward!" Drift snarled, his field expressing desperation rather than the rage his words might indicate.

Wing couldn't help laughing at that. He'd heard all of those insults before, but never all strung together at once. "Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?" the jet purred.

"An overload, damn you to the Pits of Unicron!" Drift roared, thrusting his hips up, his fully pressurized spike rigid between them and his valve still trying to contract around the emptiness inside it.

"Oh, really?" Wing's glossa teased at Drift's valve. Light fingers skittered over the cabling showing in Drift's hips and knee joints. He was careful not to give enough to grant the demanded overload, but it did draw another desperate keen from Drift.

"What do you _want_ from me?" Drift panted, squirming and desperate.

"The question is, what is it you want," was the husky murmur from the jet before his glossa was once again delving into the lubricant-slick valve.

Drift shuddered with a whining moan and a full cycle of his valve calipers. He _knew_ that answering 'overload' would not be enough. Wing had a cruel streak in him, no matter how the jet tried to say otherwise.

Another teasing lick, another shuddering moan and cycle of calipers and valve cabling around nothing.

They both knew what his frame so desperately wanted. It was a question of whether he could make it come out.

Another lick and Drift cried out, his entire frame arching into the contact and the intensity of the pleasure.

"Wing...." a plea, desperate and quiet, not to make him _say_ it.

"You can say it," Wing murmured against the valve platelets, just loud enough for Drift to hear over his fans and engine. "I'd never hurt you."

Pale optics turned off and shuttered and Drift's entire frame trembled. Protocols for this functioning raged at memories from his last until it tore a scream from Drift's vocalizer. "Yes," he panted, shaking, his field roiling with a conflagration of fear he knew was misplaced, shame learned in an existence that was no longer relevant and _want_ from his frame and current protocols.

"Tell me what you want," Wing coaxed, nuzzling against platelets dripping with lubricants.

Drift wined again, then whimpered as his frame bowed at the alien _need_ roaring through him that his new protocols swore were a good thing.

"T-take me," Drift finally managed to spit out, fear and shame coiling around him painfully before being suppressed just as harshly as Drift suppressed every other emotion he didn't want.

Wing chirred, pressing a kiss to slick platelets before slowly crawling up Drift's frame. His spike pressurized out of its housing as the white jet settled between Drift's thighs. Shifting his hips, Wing rubbed the tip against the platelets, shivering slightly at the sensation before carefully, slowly easing his spike through them into the valve itself.

His optics flickered at the intense tightness of a new, completely untested valve, the charge already jumping from the lining to his spike, and the _look_ that spread across Drift's features. The grounder's mouth was open, his optics too bright, the pleasure racing through him too intense to allow him to think about how wrong it should feel to take such pleasure in being the submitting one.

Or how his new protocols deleted that thread before it even finished.

A low, trembling moan rumbling up from Drift's chassis as he pressed upwards, into Wing, taking the invader deeper inside himself.

A gasping moan was wrung from the white jet as his pelvic plating finally pressed against Drift's, that brand-new, unused valve tight around his spike. Trembling, Wing stayed still for a long moment, bracing himself over Drift. Then, slowly, he began to move, sliding almost out and then back in, keeping his movements slow to give Drift a chance to adjust. The grounder was trembling under him, the pleasure of pressure-sensitive sensors lighting up in ways he _knew_ shouldn't be happening.

"It's new too," Drift whispered, his body taut from the charge that was already right at the edge of an overload.

Leaning down, the jet nuzzled Drift's cheek, not minding the lubricants still coating his lips and jaw. He kept his pace steady, shifting his hips to rub against different sensors, sending surges of pleasure through Drift's frame.

He was barely on the fourth slide inward when Drift roared and stiffened, every cable in his frame tightening until he was coiled into Wing, his joints locked and his optics so bright they could no longer see.

Drift's overload triggered Wing's, the jet keening as transfluid burst from his spike, flooding Drift's valve. Slender wings flared out to their full span, tips quivering. Gold optics flared as Wing stiffened over Drift, trying to keep from collapsing on top of his lover.

Energy crackled between them at every point of contact, internal and external, lighting up the room and grounding anywhere it could as it danced around the frozen lovers. Slowly, ever so slowly, Drift's frame began to uncoil, leaving him limp and dazed on the berth, staring up at the jet that was slowly shifting from 'captor' to 'lover' in Drift's processors.

It took a good klik for Wing's frame to unlock, and he slumped, catching himself on his elbows with his forehelm resting against Drift's shoulder. His ventilations were heavy and slightly unsteady, armor flared out to vent the heat. Slowly, he turned his helm until warm gold optics met pale blue, and the jet let out a soft chirr.

"Please?" Drift whispered, tugging on the chains restraining him. He was still too dazed to have processed anything, or be thinking again, but a long life half a ventilation from deactivation gave him priorities that nothing could rewrite.

Wing nodded, shifting forward and shakily reaching out to release the restraints. Leaving them attached to the berth, to be moved later, he almost collapsed on top of Drift. Strong arms moved to wrap around him, holding in an intimate embrace with a gentleness he'd never felt from Drift before. Despite the intense overload, Drift didn't seem that inclined to shut down, but he wasn't trying to move either. Not even to remove Wing's spike from his valve.

"That was... intense," Wing murmured, resting his helm against Drift's shoulder. He stayed silent for a moment, then tilted his helm to look at the bi-colored grounder. "You seemed... less disturbed by the touches to your valve this time."

"Adaptation is survival," Drift shrugged slightly. "I'm not getting out of here anytime soon, and we aren't likely to be any less intimate."

"Is that all it was?" Wing blinked. "Just adapting to survive? You can belong here, Drift. This city can be your home, too."

"Protocol rewrites, memory suppression," Drift shrugged again, then settled even more, though it wasn't entirely comfortable as he looked up into bright golden optics. "We both know, _everyone_ knows, that I'm never leaving. It was just a question of how long it took for you to pound that fact into me." His optics dimmed. "Home. Wing, how can you still believe I have any concept of what that is?"

Light fingertips traced Drift's cheek. "A safe place, a place to live and to rest, a place of refuge. Everything you've never had but have been searching for your entire existence. This city can be that place, that home. You just have to want it. To want to stay."

"To want...." Drift gave him an odd look. "Yes, I want. But what I _need_ is a lot more important. And that's not here."

Wing paused, blinking at him. "What it is you need, that you can't find here?"

"Something to fight," he said simply. "You train here, but you don't _fight_. Not even with me, or Dai Atlas." He paused. "You fought the slavers. It was a good fight. I wasn't fighting _for_ anything. Just ... stress relief."

"I'm not sure what I can say to that," Wing confessed. "Even on Cybertron we fought only rarely, and always only to defend ourselves." He stroked Drift's cheek lightly. "I hope that one orn, you will be able to fit in here."

"Wing. My gift is violence and I want to lead. It doesn't exactly make me a good citizen," Drift said, oddly patient. "Even by Decepticon standards."

"My creator's gift was violence, and he's settled down nicely," Wing pointed out. "Though, granted, he's a lot older than you are." He shifted slightly in Drift's embrace, wings trembling as the movement caused his spike to shift in Drift's valve. That movement also caused Drift to shiver.

"And bonded." Drift pointed out. "Probably to a mech who isn't temperamental in nature."

Wing snorted. "Bonded, yes, but his mate can be just as temperamental. They were General and SIC together before becoming Knights. You've met both of them." He shifted again, finally, slowly retracting his spike. 

Drift shivered again, suppressing a soft moan. Then took the time to process what Wing had said. He wasn't educated, but he was hardly stupid either. "Rrriiiight," he narrowed his optics at Wing. "No wonder you get away with so much. Creators can only handle hurting you so much before they give in, and when the leader gives in, everybody does. Or is it that Axe protects you from Dai Atlas?"

"I get away with less than you'd think. Neither of them protects me from the other. When I get too far out of line both of them are on my case." Wing shifted, fishing around in his subspace for something before pulling something out and placing it nearby on the berth. It looked like an energon cube, translucent pink and shot through with swirls of color; powdered minerals and crystals. But the minerals didn't usually hover in place like that in normal energon, and normal energon certainly didn't wobble like that.

Drift reached out and poked it, very lightly, watching it give and shift from the kinetic energy before settling back into its place again. "How long before you run out of new things to try and feed me?" he asked, slightly wary but mostly bemused.

"Considering all the different types of confections available in the city, then the traditional foods of the various cultures and all the different combinations thereof, it'll be quite a while." Wing grinned. "Just you wait until I'm able to take you out to a restaurant for a _real_ meal."

Pulling out a small but sharp dagger, the Knight expertly carved out a piece of the trembling cube, balancing the quivering slice on the flat of the blade as he offered it to Drift.

The grounder have it a skeptical look, though his field spoke of questions about whether he'd like it, rather than the expectation that he'd be drugged by it like the first few efforts Wing had made. Cautiously he picked up the strange gelled substance from Wing's knife and put it in his mouth. He allowed it to sit there, then pressed it against the roof of his oral cavity with his glossa, feeling it squish and begin to break apart under the pressure. He watched as Wing ate a piece, mulling over what he knew under his new perspective.

Almost a full klik, and another slice of the energon jelly, passed before he was ready to speak again.

"Will you tell me the truth?" Drift looked up at him, the edge of his field flickering with a determination that hadn't been there since the first few orns.

"Of course," Wing tried not to be hurt at the idea that he hadn't up until now. Something important was being decided. He could feel it, and not just in Drift's field.

"You've known for a long time what my gift is, what my drive is," Drift spoke quietly, evenly, almost like he was speaking of another mech. It was eerily reminiscent of when he spoke of Gasket and his first kills and why he became a Decepticon. "How do you plan to control me?"

Wing stared at him, shocked and slightly broadsided by the question. Eventually he gathered his wits enough to give as much of an answer as he could. "The same way I understand that Gasket and Megatron did. By earning your loyalty."

Drift gave him something resembling a sad look. "But you can't offer me what they did for it. You can provide something to protect, but nothing to protect it from," he sighed and accepted another slice of the jelly, his gaze anywhere but on Wing. "I can have everything I've ever wanted here, but only if I give up everything I need to stay sane." He actually snorted. "That's a line. Me. Sane. It's still the truth. I'll never be more than your pet project here. A mech without a function or future."

"You could be one of _us_ ," Wing murmured. "A Knight. If you wanted to be."

There was a soft touch as Drift caressed Wing's cheek, the grounder's features sad. "We'll see. It'll be a while before I can try an edit that deep. They don't stabilize well, even when it's the only change trying to set."

Wing leaned into the touch. "I will be trying my best to help you along that path, should you find it worth investigating." A soft smile flitted across his features.

A low, gusting vent of air escaped Drift, but he didn't stop Wing from believing it was really a choice. Drift was a survivor, first and foremost. Short of changing his spark-code, he would do whatever he had to to survive. Here, now, that meant finding a way to survive this city. To survive without a battle to fight. It hurt just to try and wrap his processors around the concept, but not nearly as much as remaining a pet did.

He would find a way.

It was simply what he did.

**Author's Note:**

> Author: gatekat, ultrarodimus on LJ  
> Disclaimer: The authors are only playing with their own twisted muses. Transformers belong to Hasbro. Fandom-side, check the inspirations page http://www.gatekat-fics.livejournal.com/290.html We draw from a ton of amazing stories and authors you should read.
> 
> nanoklik = 1/8 second;  
> klik = 496 nanokliks/62 seconds;  
> breem = 8 kliks/8.27 minutes;  
> groon = 9 breem/1.24 hours;  
> joor = 6 groon/7.44 hours;  
> orn = 42 joor/13.02 days;  
> decaorn = 32 orns/1.14 years;  
> metacycle = 8 decaorn/9.22 years;  
> vorn = 9 metacycles/72 decaorn/83 years; 
> 
> ::text:: comm chatter  
> ~text~ hardline/bond chatter
> 
> Prompt:  
> So fanon Wing is youthful, playful, sensual and desperately wants Drift to love New Crystal City and embrace living there (and Wing).
> 
> So Wing has tried fighting, using the language he knows Drift understands. Impressing on Drift that just because Wing enjoys luxuries, doesn't make him weak. Results are mixed. Drift understands that Wing is strong, but he refuses to accept that accepting Wing's strength doesn't make Drift weak.
> 
> Wing has tried seduction, with mixed results. Drift likes to interface, but it's not emotional, and it's decidedly not 'making love'.
> 
> Wing has tried education, with very limited results. Mostly insults about how it's stupid and useless. He probably hasn't grasped that Drift is only literate to the level needed as a ranking Decepticon grunt. Which probably isn't much.
> 
> Wing has tried showing Drift all the city has to offer him. Drift seems more insulted and hateful than attracted.
> 
> Wing has tried everything he can think of, and is getting desperate to get Drift to see the beauty and potential in peace.
> 
> What Wing hasn't seen is just how much he has made an impact on Drift. Drift has always longed for this. He's fought for it. Centered his entire functioning around gaining it. What he can't cope with it that it's being offered to him by the very mecha that left him and his kind behind on a dieing Cybertron rather than fight for it.
> 
> So when Wing, in a desperate bid to get Drift 'to see reason', goes all out to pamper the stubbornness out of Drift, he succeeds. Though not without lot of grumbling and embarrassment on Drift's part.
> 
> What I'm hoping for:  
> Lots of details on all Wing does.  
> Feeding Drift special energon treats  
> Making love to him (tied up, so Drift just has to take what's given).  
> Cleaning Drift.  
> Polishing Drift.  
> Lots of valve oral for Drift, but no spiking him, until he *asks* for it.  
> Wing being kinky -- binding his own hands as he rides Drift's spike, anything else you can think of.  
> Wing completely in charge while acting utterly submissive.  
> Tied up Drift. Lots of tied up Drift.  
> Drift showing attitude, but internally completely hooked and eventually admitting to himself that he *wants* this. He wants Wing. He wants to stay.  
> Drift, eventually, begging for Wing's spike in his valve.  
> Drift admitting he wants to stay.


End file.
